


Men Who Had Mothers

by zeitgeistic (faire_weather)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Cars, Crossdressing, Friends to Lovers, Hero Complex, Jealousy, M/M, Magical Artifacts, Mother Complex, Post-War, Slash, Ties, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vegetarians & Vegans, Voyeurism, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-31
Updated: 2006-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faire_weather/pseuds/zeitgeistic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what happens when you spend all of your time trying to save the world and never bother to see what you're saving. Inspired by vegans, philosophy, mothers, docks, and hopes and dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Men Who Had Mothers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for hd_holidays, 2006.  
> Prompt: cross-dressing, UST, exhibitionism, voyeurism, wall-sex, jealousy, ties. Much love and ♥ to venivincere, who beta'd for me. ♥

**Men Who Had Mothers**

  
Draco wore his mother's wedding dress underneath his robes on Sundays because it was beautiful, and if he didn't wear it, no one else ever would. It was too lovely to be stored at the bottom of a cedar chest forever, he thought, and even if no one ever saw him in it, it was still being worn. 

His mother would've liked that.

"This is the one," Harry said that afternoon. He and Draco were sitting at their usual table in a shady little café called the Tea Leaf that had been built several years ago using the tax money that the Ministry had saved  _not_  fighting the war. Every Sunday, they were there. 

Draco looked up when the silence, which had been longer than usual, was broken. "The one what?" he asked.

In response, Harry passed over a magazine and tapped his finger pointedly at the picture on the page. The tie that he always wore—usually over a t-shirt—hung down over the pages until he batted it away. Draco watched fondly, thinking that Harry might not ever have much fashion sense, but he always looked adorable anyway. "This is the car I want." 

Draco reached across the table to grab the magazine, eyeing the picture with distaste. "I don't like it," he said, once he'd skimmed the article. It was a muggle-wizard hybrid automobile that ran on wishes and dreams, or, more to the point, on useless memories. 

The problem was that the advert agency's definition of useless memories was immeasurably different from Draco's. The fuel tank was a pensieve; add a memory of your mother lecturing you or a particularly painful first date and it would run for six months. Energy conservation—Harry was big on that because you can only save the world once, apparently, but you can keep trying to save the planet forever. 

Draco just wasn't keen on giving up any of the memories of his mother—even if they  _had_  been of her lecturing him.

Harry frowned, fumbling with his tie again. "You never like anything."

"I like this asparagus salad," Draco pointed out. He took a bite to prove his point and Harry looked down at his own aubergine medley: he had never liked it, but he ordered it every time anyway. Draco would have thought that was ridiculous if he weren't so fucked up himself.

"It's energy efficient," Harry added coaxingly.

Draco pointed his fork at Harry, his sleeve sliding up as he did so, and added, helpfully, "So is Apparating," which was true. Apparating was much more energy efficient than any automobile—hybrid or not.

Harry eyed the bracelet on Draco's arm momentarily before flicking his eyes back up to his friend's face. And though Draco didn't think he was supposed to notice the gesture—quick as it was—he did: Harry had never been very subtle. 

The first time Harry found Draco in Narcissa's clothing, Draco had been getting ready for a Ministry gala that neither of them wanted to attend. He was sliding his mother's posh frock over his thighs just as Harry stormed into the flat, the bedroom, unannounced, and ready to fret and whine, but said only, 'Won't your bollocks show in that?'. Draco had given him a flat look and slipped his robes over the dress.

Harry had shrugged and said nothing else until the evening was almost over and Draco was ready to leave. He'd slid drunkenly over to Draco, pressed his mouth next to Draco's ear, and said, 'I'll have to take a rain check on the curry.' And then he'd nodded smarmily at a grinning, sun-bleached Charlie Weasley, and slipped out of sight.

Draco remembered that night as a turning point in the relationship of two people who couldn't go a day without a turning point—because Harry could never sit still very long, at all. He was always bored and coming up with new ways to shake up the monotony.

But Draco reckoned that  _that_  turning point was fairly significant because even though he'd always suspected it, Harry had never before admitted to Draco that he had a preference for men. 

Quid pro quo. A secret for a secret. Harry didn't like to talk about things. He liked to acknowledge them and move on. That was good enough for Draco who had few friends and even fewer he could tolerate constantly like Harry.

And, Draco admitted to himself, that had been the day that he realised how fucking beautiful Harry was, and how much he wanted him.

"Do you have to always wear that?" Harry was now asking, bringing Draco back to himself.

Draco lowered his fork and frowned. He didn't think Harry particularly cared what he wore under his robes. He hoped not, anyway. After all, Harry knew what it was like to miss your mother; he knew what it was like to love your mother, only to have her gone when you woke up one day. 

Or maybe he didn't, Draco thought. Maybe  _no one_  understood.

He stared at the Egyptian ruby bracelet hanging from his wrist, remembering how Narcissa Malfoy had worn it when she was  _happy_ , and pursed his lips. "This?"

"That," Harry said, nodding.

"It was my mother's," Draco reminded him caustically. 

After she was murdered, Draco had slept in her room at the manor for a month, singing himself to sleep in off-key renditions of an old Greek song about Narcissus that his mother used to hum to herself, and wishing that he hadn't politely told her 'no' when she asked whether or not he would fancy having voice lessons.

"Yeah," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "All the jewellery you wear is your mother's."

" _Was_  my mother's," Draco corrected snidely. "She's dead, if you've forgotten. Charlie Weasley  _accidentally_  killed her, if I remember correctly." 

Harry opened his mouth, but Draco cut him off, waving his hand and turning his head away. "No—don't. I don't want to get into that." 

And he didn't. He didn't want to think about his mother—about how he would never be able to love another woman as much as he loved her, about how he had seen her fingers sliced clean from her body and her hair disintegrating in the heat, about how the only person who ever talked to him these days might know that he  _still_  slept with Narcissa Malfoy's nightdress under his pillow.

Harry shrugged, unconcerned, and held his arm out across the table for Draco. "I got a bracelet, too," he said, and even though this wasn't a total change of subject, Harry had always been strange with segues of any kind. As such, Draco took it for what it was: the most probable reason Harry brought up the bracelet in the first place. 

"So we could match," Harry added. 

And he was beaming proudly as he said this—sounding so goddamned pleased with himself that Draco didn't immediately know how to react.

But the bracelets most certainly did not match. For one thing, Draco's belonged to his mother. For another, Harry's was woven and said, in bright red thread against a black background, 'Alackaday, and fuck my luck'.

"Terrible novel," Draco sniffed.

Harry sneered. "That line was good."

"One sentence of thousands does not a good book make."

"It was about war," Harry said. And, eventually, everything came down to war with Harry because he loved the world and everyone in it—even Draco in some strange way—but he knew nothing at all about the world except how to fight for it and how to save it. Sometimes, Draco thought that this was a little bit sad.

"It wasn't."

"It was," Harry insisted. "War was in the background. It was in a metaphorical way." He twirled his hand over his head in a vague gesture of 'metaphorical'.

Draco paused. "Have you even read the book?"

"Yes."

"The English version?" Draco clarified. "Not the version written in Klingon." 

He just wanted to make sure. Sometimes, Harry went off on these strange quests for enlightenment and whatnot and Draco wouldn't see him for days. Then, when he did see him again, the bastard would be fluent in another language, or have figured out a way for muggles to travel at the speed of light. Often, Draco attempted to get him to sell the ideas to the muggles, but Harry had always been a Communist at heart and refused every time.

"You're mocking me," Harry said. A universal truth, they both knew. There was a pause.

Draco went back to his food, but couldn't help noticing that Harry was staring at him. His hand was still up in the air, elbows propped tastelessly on the table, and that stupid bracelet was right in Draco's face.

"What?" Draco asked irritably.

Harry looked away. "Nothing."

"I've been thinking; we should go to the coast," Draco said several seconds later.

"The coast?" Harry asked, confused. His hand dropped back down to the table, both tie and bracelet forgotten, and Draco sighed in relief. "What's at the coast?"

Draco shrugged. 

Harry turned back to his  _Technimagic_  magazine, half-heartedly picking at the aubergine medley and worrying the thread of the bracelet. Occasionally, when Draco was alternately picking at his salad and watching the people bustling by the window, he caught Harry watching him surreptitiously, but he made no mention of it. 

Harry flipped a page, head propped on his palm, and fingered his bracelet.

"Hermione flooed yesterday," he unexpectedly said, adding slyly, "while you were picking out which ribbon would look best in your pretty hair." Draco scowled and kicked him under the table again. It was so easy to desire Harry, even when he was teasing him like that. Maybe especially then.

"What did she have to say, then?"

Harry shrugged, twirling his finger in his tea—black, without, because he didn't drink milk and the sugar was processed. "Said there was a unicorn foaled last week. The mother died."

Draco's eyebrows shot up to his hair line. "Indeed?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Do you have to talk like such a toff, still?"

"I'm a Malfo—"

"A strapped Malfoy," Harry interrupted pointedly, "who lives in a one-bedroom flat with a window that looks out on the flats across the way." He shrugged again. "No reason to talk like a posh git when you can't afford to be one anymore, is there?"

Draco scowled. "Fine. What I meant to say was, 'Yeah? Swot found a bleedin' baby horny horse, did she?'"

"Sub par, Draco."

"It's the lighting; it's throwing me off my game. Why do we keep coming here?"

Harry shrugged. "Don't know."

Draco stirred his tea. "So, I suppose you're all packed to go rescue the little lad then, aren't you? Where is he? The unicorn, I mean."

"Sussex," Harry hedged. Draco's eyebrows went up in amusement and Harry grudgingly admitted, "Brighton."

"Ah, Brighton," Draco said, exaggeratedly cheerful. "Lovely place, I hear. Full of fairies and pretty boys and poufs. We'll fit right in, won't we?"

Harry smirked, lips looking deliciously full. "You will."

"I shall," Draco said, with what he hoped was a straight face. "I'll just have a go at my ribbon collection, put on my posh frock and cling on your arm like a simpering sycophantic tart."

Harry laughed softly, probably remembering the posh frock in question. "Lovely."

They stared at each other for several seconds. "Fine," Draco said with an exaggerated sigh. "When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow morning," Harry answered, as if he'd had all this planned, which—surprising as that would have once been—he probably did. "You can stay at mine tonight and we'll go first thing. I want to test drive one of these new Magicabrios," by which he was referring to that infernal car. 

"Certainly not," Draco stated immediately. "I'll have no part in your ridiculous muggle-merging."

Harry only gave him a look, and Draco was forced to acquiesce with, "You know, Brighton's on the coast." Even as he said it, Draco knew he should've kept his mouth shut. It might've been a little bit sad that Harry knew so little of the world, but Harry didn't  _know_  that he didn't know, and as soon as he did, he would be disappointed in what he learned.

Harry's eyebrows rose. "What's with you and the coast today, Malfoy?"

"I don't know," Draco said, but his eyes flickered to the side as he said it, and Harry knew he was lying.

" _What_ , Malfoy?"

Regretfully, Draco opened his mouth and said, as if it were some sort of terrible dream he once had, "You spend all this time trying to save the world, but you never bother to see what you're saving."

Harry looked at him thoughtfully, and swirled his fork around in his aubergine medley.

-

On a good day, Harry woke up on Draco's Chesterfield—which wasn't very comfortable—with one hand in his pants and the other thrown over his head. 

On a bad day, Draco woke up on Harry's dodgy brown couch with the telly blaring the Vegan Food Network's seven a.m. infomercials, the sound of Harry's bare feet padding drunkenly into the kitchen, swearing, and the coffee maker crashing to the floor.

" _Christ Al-bleeding-mighty's mother-fucking hell!_ "

It was a bad day.

Draco groaned, scratched his chest and tucked his head between the half-destroyed couch cushions. 

" _Fuck!_ " Draco half-heartedly tossed a pillow in the direction of the kitchen. The coffee maker crashed to the floor and Harry said, wearily, "…Goddamnit, Draco."

Draco lifted his head grumpily. "What?" he rasped. Harry's fingers started tapping against the wall and Draco sleepily opened his eyes. Harry was leaning against the doorway with his palm pressed to the wall, fingers still drumming, and a resigned look on his face.

"What?" he asked again.

Wordlessly, Harry held up the couch cushion—dripping wet with coffee—and his own coffee mug—suspiciously empty.

"Apologies," Draco mumbled, and attempted to bury his head back into the couch. He was so tired—maybe a bit hung-over—and he wanted to go back to sleep. He rolled over to get more comfortable, but ended up, agonizingly, on the floor on top of last night's mushy take-away containers. "Aw, hell."

"Get up you lazy sod," Harry said quietly. Then unexpectedly, there was a soggy, coffee-saturated pillow on Draco's face. 

"How nauseating." Draco peeled the filthy thing off his face and promised himself that from now on, they would be eating the take-away at his flat. He was so goddamned tired of getting leftover vegan gyros in his hair every other morning.

"Get up," Harry said again, and as Draco cracked open one eye through the haze of last night's alcohol, he saw Harry standing above him now, looking quite unrepentant and even a bit amused.

"I'll want a shower now, thanks to  _you_ —" Draco started.

"No time," Harry said, even as he was waving his wand over Draco's clothes to dry them.

"No!" Draco protested. He wrapped his arms around his chest and elaborated, "It'll make them stiff. These are not any of your tacky, cheap blends. This fabric requires a cert—"

Harry tossed his wand at Draco's head, where it bounced, and strode back into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "Then  _you_  do it, you ponce."

If anyone were the ponce in this flat, Draco thought sourly, it was Harry. The galling thing of it, though, was that Harry might be gay—that much was certain and that much Draco relied on—but he inherited none of the good traits associated with homosexuality. His flat was always cluttered, his clothes were always wrinkled, and his hair defied description.

Sneering, Draco picked up the wand—wondering absently if his own was somewhere amongst the couch cushions—and charmed his clothes clean. Then, his hair dripped manky coffee on his collar and he had to charm them clean again—after, this time—first doing himself.

They apparated to the Magicabrio dealership in wizarding Essex ("Energy conservation, Harry. Better yet, why don't we  _walk_  there to save  _magical_  energy?") where Harry went slack-jawed over the various colours and upgrade packages, and Draco sniped about everything before he eventually found something to keep his interest.

The thing of the matter was that, no matter how prettily he begged the words to be, at the end of the day, Draco made his living with thievery. And he was about to again.

There was a business of sorts dedicated to the maintenance of the world—righteous business it was, having the sheer neck to allocate departments for people such as Draco, whose tasks and job descriptions included stealing—though it was never worded so crudely—things that spoiled the ozone or post owls or rubbish bins, et cetera, and, sometimes, replacing those things with something more…symbiotic.

To be honest, Draco didn't know exactly what  _Harry_  did for work, per se, but somewhere at the top of all of this brazen righteousness, he reverently suspected, was Harry Potter, though he could never get it out of him one way or another.

What he  _knew_  was that Harry had his fingers in just about every environmental advocate and save-the-animals group around—both muggle and wizard. He knew that sometimes Harry would be gone for days at a time de-trapping a trapped Nundo or bandaging a Fellingo—which was kind of like a muggle flamingo, only it always fell when it went to sleep on one leg—or raining cash down on the arseholes from PETA. 

And Harry had so much dosh—much more so than Draco nowadays, anyway, and he never spent a Knut of it, save for afternoons at the Tea Leaf and take-away at night. Draco suspected that this was because he was funding this so-called business that Draco stumbled upon several years back when he was dourly in need of work and maybe, if he could've afforded it, a flat.

Then, to have Potter show up one day while Draco was ganking a posh old muggle woman's aerosol spray tins and replacing them with something more environmentally friendly, only to nod his head, give him a round 'Carry on, then, Malfoy', and walk off as if they hadn't just run across each other in some random muggle's  _bedroom_ …

Draco knew Harry was part of all this shameful, shifty business, but he  _suspected_  that Harry was a much bigger part than himself.

And he knew that even more times than not, Harry would trick or otherwise convince Draco to come along on these excursions—these things where Fellingos were patched up, and automobiles were rigged with magical exhaust-eliminating components—never mind that Draco actually had a paying job.

The thing was Draco knew that he wouldn't  _have_  a paying job if it wasn't for Harry. He  _suspected_  that in a roundabout sort of way, that Harry paid his cheque to begin with, so he never turned down the offers of a bevvy at the local or grouched much when Harry fell asleep on his couch sometimes.

But all of that was completely different from his falling asleep— _again_ —on  _Harry's_  couch, which was lumpy and altogether uncomfortable even when Potter didn't have the cooling charms set to seven degrees. 

Draco was rather perturbed this morning, and the Magicabrio wasn't really all that energy efficient, after all, because even if it emitted no exhaust and required no tangible fuel, the in-dash clock was Magical-LED and created  _noise_  pollution, of all things, by chirp and chirruping whenever one's family members changed tasks. 

Currently, it was set to Default, wherein a sample of "Mummy: (chirp) Cooking!" flashed before moving onwards to "Sally: (chirrup) On a date!" and finally settling on "Dad: (chirp) Working!" 

Draco spat in disgust, even as he was trying to think of who he would have on his own clock, should he be so common as to have one ("Mummy: (chirrup) Dead!"), but the ghastly taste remained in his mouth. 

Sneering, he pulled his wand and removed—which was a bit like stealing, where his pay packet was concerned—the chirping charm, wondering absently what, in all seven hells, Harry could be doing that was taking him so long. 

It was impossible that he actually found these damned things intriguing enough to engage himself in them for more than a round ten minutes. Harry never found anything engaging. He was always bored, and he was always moving.

-

It turned out that Harry actually did find them engaging, of a sort, because thirty minutes later, Draco, ambling tetchily through the dealership, found him with a sales assistant and slavering over a Gryffindor Red Magicabrio.

He suddenly felt a lot better about all of the rationalizing he'd had to do to excuse removing the chirruping charm.

"We're taking this one for the test-drive," Harry pronounced as Draco walked up. Draco, for himself, remained stoically silent, though it was merely because he was finding it difficult to think of a properly debasing reply. It was hard to do when Harry was looking so excited and pleased with himself.

"A fantastic model," the salesman was saying. "Really, truly top of the line. And a steal, really."

Draco snorted, having altogether too much experience with steals and stealing himself to believe the man, and altogether too much common sense to believe that the man actually believed himself. 

Harry, unfortunately, was naïve and uncomprehending of the world, and he believed him, which was decidedly endearing and saddening at once. He looked longingly at the garish gold interior, turned back to the salesman, and said, "I'll have it back in the morning."

And they certainly would if Draco had anything to do with it all. Which, he realised suddenly, he did.

-

There had been a time when Draco was contemplating suicide—not for any particularly tragic reason, only that he was a bit bored. That, upon reflection, might have been tragic enough, but he brought the idea up to Harry one evening nonetheless. They were watching Channel Two, and chuckling perfunctorily at the gag-lines.

"What do you suppose it's like to die?" Draco had asked.

Harry shrugged—which was pretty much how he always answered philosophical questions like that. He was a dreamer, but he kept all his dreams to himself, mostly, hoarding them and wandering off into thought for hours at a time. "Don't know."

And that hadn't really given Draco much to go on, as might've been imagined, so he pushed it a bit farther, saying, "I want to know what it's like to die—as opposed to living," because that wasn't an indirect question and Harry couldn't really shrug that sort of comment off.

"I reckon we all do," Harry said, "but I'm not about to slit my wrists just to get a different perspective on life."

And that might have been the end of it—because it was certainly a good way to end the conversation—but it had, Draco realised later on that night, given  _him_  a different perspective on life. 

And as far as perspectives went, Draco had several. 

Of the most prominent was that muggle contraptions—wizardly hybrid or not—were frightening, dangerous things. This was seconded only by the fact that Harry was raised muggle, knew muggle, and wanted—at the end of the day—to  _be_  muggle, only with magic.

Currently, Harry was proving that Draco had the correct perspective on things by careening round England's old roads heading south, but making Draco feel as if they might, in fact, be heading towards Hell itself. 

He was frightened and he was angry and he was holding on for life—maybe not dear life, but life, just the same.

Harry was grinning. Beaming, really, which was a disgusting habit and something he partook of far too often, even if Draco did love to see it, and even if it sent shivers and trembles down his spine every time he did. "Isn't this great?"

"No!" Draco snarled.

The top was down, the wind was in Harry's face, and he was less one memory of Occlumency lessons with Snape. He looked delighted. Draco wished, just for a second, that he'd had the nerve to follow through with that suicide idea; at least then he wouldn't be scared shitless and trusting his life to Harry Potter.

Ahead of them, Brighton appeared, and Draco thanked God for small mercies. Miniscule, really.

-

It turned out that a squib couple was supposed to be watching over the unicorn foal until someone from the magical animal protection agency came to pick it up, but they hadn't gotten very far, they said. 

"Unfortunately," Mrs Webber, the squib woman, said dryly, "the unicorn had no such troubles. I'm afraid he's gotten much farther than we have."

"You mean to say that the unicorn has done a runner?" Draco asked slowly.

Mrs Webber glanced at her husband and winced. "I'm afraid so. Without magic, we just had no way to really keep it here, other than the fence, of course, and when we went out this morning to feed the lad, it was gone."

Draco looked at Harry, whose facial expression was hard to place, and sighed. "Well, it couldn't have gotten far—still being very young, and, of course, having left within the past twenty-four hours."

"Right," Harry agreed, sighing deeply. He was, always, a man of few words. "So, we'll start looking then."

Mr Webber glanced out of his kitchen window where a cavalcade of tourists and residents alike were trooping past, pointing out good views and enjoying the day. "Good luck."

Harry and Draco followed his gaze and winced simultaneously, very thankful, at that moment, that muggles could not see magical creatures. It was still going to be a long day, though.

"Grocer's first?" Draco asked.

Harry nodded and sighed. "I reckon that's the best place to start."

"Why would you look for a unicorn at the grocer's?" Mr Webber asked.

"We're not looking for the unicorn there; we've just got to get supplies," Harry explained. "Treacle."

"Why treacle?" Mrs Webber asked.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Because horses like sugar."

"That doesn't explain anything, really," Mrs Webber said with a self-deprecating smile and an apologetic laugh.

"Well, the unicorn is a member of the horse family, and it's magical and it's British. It likes treacle. If it was Turkish, it would probably like baklava."

Draco nodded in agreement to Harry's explanation. Really, everyone knew that. Especially Harry who spent so much of his time learning how to save everything. Draco looked at him fondly, pleased with how intelligent Harry was, even if he was wasting all of his knowledge on a hopeless cause.

Later that evening, after they had spent a full eleven hours searching for the unicorn foal to no avail, Harry confessed that he was, in fact, hungry, so they sat on the shore and poured treacle into their mouths while they watched the waves crash against the shore. 

"What if it really was a Turkish unicorn?" Harry asked suddenly. "What if the mother was Turkish and that's why we haven't been able to attract it with the treacle?"

Draco pulled his mother's shawl from his robes and wrapped it around the both of them, as it was beginning to get cold. Harry's silly tie was swishing about in the wind and he was fiddling with his bracelet again. It was such a strange contrast—Harry looking so sad while his stupid tie looked so silly. Draco's heart clenched and he was suddenly overcome with the desire to kiss Harry—push him down on the sand and tangle his hands in his ridiculous hair. "It's probably just scared," he said.

"I would be," Harry admitted quietly. "Without my mother for the first time." Draco nodded. He was still scared sometimes.

"We should come back in a few days and try again."

Harry was quiet for a long time. "Do you think we'll find him?" he asked.

"Or he'll find us," Draco said. "All of us men who had mothers once, we all turn out the same, and we all end up in the same places."

Harry nodded, believing him wholly, because he was like that. 

The drive back to Essex was strangely calming. Harry let the top down, turned off the radio, and just drove. Draco thought that if he weren't in the car with him, that Harry might go so far as to close his eyes. It didn't scare him.

When Granger rang Harry on his magical mobile (a device that used controlled splinching to apparate your voice to the person you were calling) and asked if he would like to have dinner with her and Ron, he declined in favour of a night on Draco's couch.

Draco couldn't explain why that pleased him as much as it did.

-

Harry stopped eating meat after the last battle in the war. There had only been three battles all in all, but the last was by far the worst. 

Sometime after their sixth year, before Snape had encouraged Draco and his mother to get as far away from Lucius Malfoy as possible, the light side had found it fitting to all go to battle in white robes. According to Dumbledore, this was instituted not only for identification purposes, but also to show the Death Eaters that they were not afraid—no, intimidated, because surely only a complete div would not have been afraid.

But all that was before his mother saw Potter—he was still Potter all the time then, even though they were friends—come limping in the front door with blood seeping from his mouth, and decided that no half-blood would make her look like a useless toff. She was trained to fight a war just like the rest of them, she told Draco sternly. 

Just with different tactics, and the white washed her out, but she would deal with that because no one would be snapping photos during the battle, after all, right Draco?

He remembered how lovely Narcissa looked in all white—ethereal and translucent, and, yes, a bit washed out—and that he'd loved her more that day than any other day of his life. 

_"I promise," Draco said to his mother, "after this, we'll move to Greece and live in a white bungalow with white sand in our garden."_

_His mother laughed, petted his hair and kissed him before throwing the white hood over her head. "And be washed out together?" she said from underneath._

_"Precisely."_

That was the day when the Death Eaters, becoming desperate, finally introduced the photo-negativity spell. Death Eaters were really very clever when they tried. Draco knew because he had helped to develop the spell himself. 

When Voldemort cast the spell, everyone in the vicinity went temporarily colour-blind and a photo-negative effect commenced. White robes became black robes, black robes became white robes, and the light side, having not expected it, ended up picking off their own. 

"I'm not eating tofu," Harry said at lunch the next afternoon. "It  _feels_  like flesh." He was staring out the window at the Magicabrio as he said this, a look of longing on his face. 

Having woken up with a stiff neck from a night on Draco's couch, Harry was already in a dodgy mood. He'd owled the dealership and told them he was keeping the car for the weekend just because he didn't feel like taking it back. Or so he told Draco.

"Then don't  _touch_  it," Draco advised sourly. In truth, if his mother hadn't raised him vegetarian, Draco would have given meat up too after seeing her ripped in half and cauterized by Charlie Weasley's dragon spell.

At the pubs, Harry drank wheat beer and refused the nuts because they had preservative spells on them, but that was for an entirely different reason altogether, and if Harry sometimes was overcome with fits of righteous indignation and virtuous smugness, Draco never said a thing. He wore women's clothing underneath his robes, after all, and even sometimes, on the weekends, without the robes.

"I don't want to go to the effing Ministry  _gala_ ," Harry continued, stressing the last word poshly. He chose a vegetable soup instead of his usual and passed the menu back to the waiter. 

Draco might have asked why he didn't choose the aubergine medley this time, but it was moot, as he knew what the answer would be in any case: 'They added chicken stock to the recipe.' 

And that might or might not have been true, but Harry was firm in his convictions, and it was possible that they might add chicken stock to the recipe at some later date, so he might as well wean himself off it at any rate.

"Don't have much say in it, really," Draco responded. "Got to give them a speech, haven’t you?"

The owl had come only that morning, addressed:  _'Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy's couch, 404 White Owl St., Essex'_  and Harry had thrown such a fit that Draco had felt obligated to hex him. He had, and that had settled Harry for a few minutes at least.

Harry Potter (and guest) were cordially invited to the something-annual 'Defeat of the Dark' party, hosted by the Ministry. That Harry was requested to give a speech was only mentioned in passing, but it was enough to put him off his food for the rest of the day. Truth be told, it was enough to put Draco off his food, too.

Harry groaned and put his head down on the table. "Stop that," Draco hissed, kicking his shin sharply under the table. Harry lifted his head and gave Draco a distracted sneer. "You're embarrassing me. At least _act_  like you weren't raised by Yanks."

Harry snorted and sat up. "Let's go out tonight."

His non-sequitur was means for Draco to roll his eyes. "No."

"Why not? We'll have fun. We always do."

"No gay bars," Draco said.

"No gay bars," Harry affirmed. "Why no gay bars?"

"When we go out to gay bars, you come out to gay patrons."

"Makes enough sense, I reckon," Harry admitted. "Wear something pretty. I'll pick you up at eight."

"So long as you don't pick me up at eight," Draco said pointedly.

Harry scoffed and said, "I'd never do that, Malfoy." And then he was gone, and Draco was left staring at his food, wondering how wankers like Harry could go from depressed to excited within the span of several minutes. And why he was so upset that Harry wouldn't ever try to pick him up.

-

 

Harry picked Draco up at eight.

The M-LED display flashed and chirped: "Malfoy! About to start whinging!"

"You can personalize it, you know," Harry explained. "I've been fucking around with it all afternoon."

"And that's what you put for me?" Draco was, understandably, scandalized. "I don't whinge!"

"You do," Harry said. "Sometimes."

"Yeah—sometimes,  _maybe_ , but I wasn't about to just then!"

"But you are now," Harry said. His eyebrows were high.

"But it didn't know that!"

"How do you know?"

"I just know."

There was a silence. "Where are we going?" Draco asked.

"I don’t know."

"I don't want to go out," Draco lamented, staring out the windscreen. "Let's just get some take-away and go back to your place, yeah?"

"Really?" Harry asked. "I didn't really want to deal with the crowds, either, but I sort of wanted to drive the car."

"You got to pick me up," Draco offered. 

"But not pick you up," Harry grinned. 

Draco flushed, pursed his lips and adjusted his robes over his legs. The silk slip dress he was wearing was bunching up uncomfortably, but it was probably a problem with his cock reacting to Harry's low voice and not any defect with the silk.

"So let's go to the quay," Draco said. Sometimes they had lunch on one of the docks that the muggles had somehow missed during their renovations when they visited London proper, and even though it was dirty and smelled a bit, Draco had always liked it.

"You always complain when we go there," Harry said, but he was smiling and already turning the car in that direction.

Draco shrugged. "That's what I do."

So they drove to London, ignoring all sorts of muggle laws, and Harry let the top down again. There was a twenty-four hour curry-shop open, but nothing was vegan-friendly, so they just ended up getting flat-bread from a corner-store and eating it on the docks. The dampness of the wood seeped through Draco's trousers—which Harry made him wear when they went to muggle places—but that was okay.

"I wish there were ducks," Harry mumbled. They were sitting side by side, arms draped over their drawn up knees, hands occasionally brushing when they both went to grab a piece of bread at the same time. Harry's tie was hanging between his legs and getting wet from the dock.

"Why?" Draco asked. Harry was warm next to him, and he couldn't help leaning a little closer. Not close enough to touch because that would be too much, but closer just the same.

He could see Harry giving him a withering look in the light reflecting from the Thames. "To feed them, stupid."

"Ducks can find their own food," Draco said. He took a bite of the flatbread and gestured vaguely in front of them. "There's all sorts of fish in there."

"Yeah, but…" Harry trailed off, probably going into another one of existential inner diatribes. He ate his flatbread carelessly, every now and then tossing bits of it into the water and looking extraordinarily pleased when something unseen snatched it.

Draco loved watching him when he was like this—idealistic and separate from the world. Harry was such a dreamer and to Draco, who didn't know how to be anything but pragmatic, it was like stepping inside someone else's pensieve. 

He wondered if his mother had ever had thoughts like Harry did. If she ever wondered about the nature of the world in relation to one person like Harry did or wanted to save things just because they were beautiful.

And then Draco wondered if he only missed her because she had been beautiful. Or if he was only drawn to Harry because he was beautiful. Or if he was becoming more of a dreamer because Harry influenced people just by being around.

"Let's go home," Draco said many minutes later.

Harry hummed thoughtfully, finished off his piece of bread and then stood. "Alright," he said.

When they ended up at Harry's flat, Draco didn't even pause to wonder if that was what he had meant when he said 'home'. He didn't have to; home was wherever Harry was, and when he fell onto the couch, he was asleep within minutes. It didn't seem near as uncomfortable as it usually did.

-

Draco had probably only been asleep for half an hour when he woke up again, back already aching from Harry's stupid couch, but not bothering him as much as it would've. He stood and stretched, considered a comfort charm, and wondered why he'd never thought to cast one on the couch before.

He was just rummaging through the couch cushions for his wand when he heard something, knowing immediately that it had been the cause for him waking. 

Harry usually fell asleep after Draco, so it was not uncommon to hear the shower running as he drifted off or Harry shuffling papers, but this was different. This was new. This was something he was quite sure he'd never heard before.

Draco had no idea why he was walking so quietly. It wasn't like Harry was being attacked, as he could take care of himself, and anyone would be stupid to attack him. Harry had no secrets from him, so it wasn't like he was trying to sneak up—to catch him unawares. But he was walking quietly up the hall just the same, wand laying forgotten somewhere near the bottom of the couch.

The sound was louder as Draco neared the bathroom door, but quiet just the same. If he had been asleep, Draco never would have heard it. Through the door, he could hear Harry, and then—oh, he knew exactly what Harry was doing.

Harry's breath filtered through the wood of the door in harsh, muffled pants, and the sound—now that Draco knew what it was—echoed through the flat like tiny explosions. His heartbeat sped up so unexpectedly that he was sure Harry would be able to hear it on the other side.

What was he doing? He asked himself that even as his fingers closed around the doorknob—knowing that he shouldn't do this and that he would regret it, but unable to assimilate that knowledge at the time. 

That's when he heard his name—whispered breathily and low just like Harry always spoke but so much more quietly. Draco opened the door.

Steam poured out from the tiny bathroom, and once it had, Draco saw him: hair wet and dripping from his shower and leaning back against the tiles with his left hand wrapped around his cock and his right hand grabbing at his hair.

He'd seen Harry naked thousands of times before—wandering around his flat or drunk and stupid at one of Finnigan's parties—but he'd never seen him like this. Wet and dripping and head thrown back. Panting, whimpering softly.

Draco couldn't help the way his eyes travelled over Harry's chest, following the coarse black hair that led from his navel to…

Harry's hand was moving quickly up and down his shaft and it was so hot that Draco thought, for a brief moment, that he might come from it. Harry breathed his named again, and Draco whimpered, not able to stop himself. It was all too much—knowing that Harry thought about him the way that he thought about Harry.

Harry's eyes slitted open slowly and he panted, staring at him. Draco couldn't look away from his face, even though he knew that Harry was still fucking his hand right in front of him. He was so fucking turned on that he couldn't move at all. Then Harry threw his head back again, moaning Draco's name and coming all over the floor.

Watching, Draco pressed his palm against his cock and shuddered, trying to keep himself from falling to the floor. He couldn't take this anymore. He had to touch Harry. Had to feel him and be felt. Had to show Harry that he wanted him, too, and that he understood him.

Draco moved to kiss him, thinking—knowing, god, yes, finally—that something was going to come of all this. He leaned in, eyes closing, anticipating the feel of Harry's hot mouth on his, and how it would contrast with the coldness of his tongue where all the blood had circulated away from when he came.

He was close enough to feel Harry's breath when he pushed him away with a soft, sorry, "No, Draco." 

Draco froze, still close enough to feel Harry's breath, but too close to recognize the war of emotions crossing Harry's face.

"What?" Draco asked, blinking with confusion and, he was ashamed to admit even to himself, hurt. "Why not?"

"We can't," Harry said, shaking his head. He didn't seem at all bothered with his state of undress or his come splattered all across the tiles, but he wouldn't look at Draco just the same. And it was a strange thing; Harry always looked at him. Even when Draco didn't want him to—sometimes especially when Draco didn't want him to.

"Why?" Draco repeated.

Harry gestured uselessly between them. "I'd never be able to compete," he whispered. "I'd never even stand a chance." 

"Against who?" Draco demanded in a deadly voice. "Who've I ever fucked more than once since you've known me?" He sneered, defence mechanisms kicking in, and added, "You're the one who's thrown lovers around like owl treats. If it's not Zacharias Smith, then it's Charlie Weasley or Seamus sodding Finnigan! All of them tow-headed little snots, when you could have me." 

He couldn't help what he was saying, not really. He was hurt—ashamed that Harry would reject him even after coming with his name on his lips. Harry flinched at each name, and that, Draco thought, was odd. Harry had never been the type of person to be ashamed of anything he did.

"Tow-headed little snots?" Harry sneered back at him, finally gathering himself enough to respond. He reached down, grabbed his trousers and pulled them on. 

"Why not me?" Draco growled, so fucking embarrassed that he didn't know how else to react. "Why? I know you better than any of those tossers ever did, and it was never me." 

Harry, strangely, stared at him like a deer caught in headlights. Draco could see the fight leaving him, seeping out of his pores and landing somewhere, probably in all the come on the tiles. His shoulders slumped pathetically as he replied.

"I haven't been with anyone in over two years, Draco," he said wearily, and maybe pointedly as well.

"And," Harry continued in his low, quiet voice, "It has been you. It was always you, but I can't compete. I never could."

"Compete with whom?" Draco hissed. He was already tired of all of this fucking circuitous bullshitting. And the embarrassment. And the arousal. And the culmination of years of desire.

"Your mother," Harry said quietly, but defiantly. Almost cruelly, his green eyes flickered down to the bracelets littering Draco's wrists, up to his neck where his mother's favourite choker was, then off to the side at the tiles on the wall.

Draco scoffed because he was afraid that if he did anything else it would end with both of them bloody and unconscious on the toilet floor. "You don't want me because I wear my mother's clothes? You're ashamed of me, aren't you? Why are you even friends with me then? Is it pity?"

"Don't be daft," Harry said, eyes flicking back to him angrily, "I don't give a shit what you do, Draco. Crossdressing?" he said sarcastically, "Fine. Whatever. But don't do it because you miss your mum. Do it for yourself. Narcissa Malfoy's dead, and she doesn't give a  _shit_  whether or not anyone's wearing her fucking posh frock."

Harry pushed past him.

Draco watched Harry storm off from his own flat feeling like he was seeing it from someone else's perspective, and then wondered how many fucking perspectives he would have before he went mad from it all. Harry took the floo, but even though he snarled the address of Granger's flat loud enough for Draco to hear, Draco still wasn't sure where Harry was  _going_.

Fuck, he hated unintentional philosophy.

-

It was true that Draco was a bit strapped—for a Malfoy, anyway—but he wasn't so strapped that he couldn't afford to have a few things he wanted. It was only that the things he wanted were things he couldn't possibly have.

Waking up in the morning with clean hair was disconcerting. Draco buried his head under his blanket and waited for Harry to start swearing, but it never came and the coffee-maker never crashed to the floor. He stretched, arms sliding under his pillow and frowned when his fingers brushed over silky fabric.

It had, in fact, been so long since he'd slept in his own bed that he had forgotten that his mother's nightdress was still under his pillow. Draco pulled the fabric out, watched as it slinked and slunk against the morning sunlight, and wondered how, if he loved his mother so much, he could have forgotten about this just because he'd been spending most nights on Potter's couch.

Granger floo-called several hours later, bitching, of course, and wanting to know just what the hell Draco had done to Harry. He was startled, realizing that Harry had not betrayed his secrets to her, and simply stood there, staring stupidly at her floating head.

"What?"

"What did you do to Harry, Malfoy?" Granger repeated through gritted teeth. Draco didn't think he'd ever seen her grit her teeth before.

"He didn't tell you what happened?" Draco hedged.

Granger snarled, fumbled behind her, and then Draco was dodging a book. "What happened, Malfoy?" she repeated. "Did something happen when you went to fetch the unicorn?"

"No," Draco said slowly. "We couldn't find it, though."

Granger rolled her eyes. "I'm aware of that. Otherwise, Harry would have been nagging me to find a proper herd for it to join."

"Harry could've found a herd for it himself," Draco said indignantly. Honestly, did she think he was useless? Harry could do all sorts of things. Much more so than Granger could, at any rate.

"He could've, yes," Granger admitted, "but he would've rather spent the time eating take-away, getting drunk, and watching telly with you."

Draco scoffed. "He'd rather save the world."

Granger's eyes narrowed. "He already has, Malfoy."

And that's when Draco realised that Granger didn't even fully understand Harry. It all seemed so tragic, really, that he couldn't help feeling sorry for her and everyone else who'd ever met Harry and not understood him. 

Harry was amazing. How could anyone not want to know him like that? Maybe, he thought, Harry was really like one of those ineffable things that people thought they understood but really didn't. 

How lonely would it be to go through life with no one to understand you? To be so far apart from everyone else that even if you were in a crowded room, you were still standing by yourself?

Draco thought back to the day before, how intoxicated he had become with watching Harry, how much he had wanted to participate—over and over and over—and realised, finally, that he hadn't understood Harry, either.

But Harry had understood him.

"Just fix it, Malfoy," Granger snarled. "I calmed him down and he's gone back to his flat now. Fix it." And then she was gone.

Draco stared at the lifeless grate for nearly an hour before he remembered to move. He went to make coffee—even though he didn't really like it—but the water scalded him and the coffee-maker crashed to the floor.

It was so familiar, but so unfamiliar that he didn't know what to do with himself, so he left the water on the floor where it stained the hard-wood and went back to bed. He wasn't so strapped that he couldn't take a day off from work.

-

The Ministry gala was three nights later, on a Sunday. Draco apparated to the coast at Brighton after sunset and found Harry sitting on the pier, hair blowing fiercely with the sea wind, hand outstretched.

"You found him," Draco said by way of greeting. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself, trying to fight off the occasional bursts of wind, and stared at the timid little creature ducking its head for Harry.

"He found me," Harry replied quietly. The foal's horn was still just a glittering gold bump on its intense white head, but Draco had seen enough unicorns in textbooks to know that this was the creature they had been looking for only days before. 

It was only that he'd never seen one in real life before. And they were beautiful. One look at the downy white fur, the vivid blue eyes, and Draco understood why Harry kept trying.

There  _were_  things left to save in the world. Things not yet broken or destroyed.

"Just like you said," Harry continued. "Men who had mothers—they always end up in the same places."

Harry still hadn't turn to look at Draco, but that was okay. Harry was saving the world right now, and Draco didn't want to interrupt. He watched as Harry poured another gob of treacle on the tips of his fingers and held them out for the baby unicorn.

It stuck its nose out, whinnied delightedly, and lapped up the sugary substance. "That's how I knew you'd come. Always the same places."

Draco felt brave for the first time in his life, right then. 

"I missed you," he said to Harry's back. When Harry only stiffened, Draco continued, laying his words out like a flush of cards and hoping that the house didn't win this time. "I missed take-away and accidentally putting my hand in a wet spot on the couch where you drooled all over it. I missed waking up to you failing at making coffee."

The foal, having finished the treacle on Harry's fingers and wanting more, ducked its head into the jar and helped itself. Harry's hand dropped to his lap and his head fell forward slightly.

"I missed the way you tease me, and the way you natter on about saving the planet without actually admitting that you're trying to save the planet."

Harry laughed dryly. "Brilliant."

Draco took a step forward and then another, until he was standing in front of Harry and staring down at his face. Cheeks raw and blistered from the wind, lips red and full. Draco had never wanted him more than he did at that moment—even if Harry's hair was everywhere. Maybe  _because_  Harry's hair was everywhere.

It occurred to him as he took in the brightness of Harry's eyes that maybe he had finally begun to see what he was saving all this time.

"I didn't miss my mother, though," Draco admitted. "Not once."

Harry looked up at him then. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Draco said. Reaching up to his neck, he snapped the clasp of his cloak and allowed it to fall from his shoulders. The fabric pooled around his ankles, and Draco was suddenly overcome with panic and indecision.

Harry had never seen him in Narcissa's wedding dress. Would he think him a fool? Think he looked ridiculous? It didn't matter; Draco had come to prove something and he was going to prove it.

"That's your mum's wedding dress," Harry said, knowing instinctively, even if he'd never seen it before.

Draco nodded. "I look ridiculous, don't I?"

Harry shook his head quickly. "I think you look beautiful…I just wish you'd do it for yourself, and not your dead mum."

"I am doing this for myself," Draco said, and closed his eyes. This was the part he'd been steeling himself for, the part he'd been dreading. The dress was made of flimsy gossamer and thirty-year-old silk. It was not difficult to grab it with both hands and rip until it fell off of him, but it was  _hard_.

Harry inhaled quickly, and Draco was already shivering by the time he could open his eyes without making a bigger fool of himself. 

Draco couldn't stand to look at the wedding dress for very long, so he kicked it over the edge of the pier. He might've been tempted to repair it otherwise.

"That was for you," Draco explained, watching the white fabric as it became saturated and sank slowly down. Chancing a glance at Harry, he noticed that his bright green eyes were trained on him as if it were an imperative. 

He gestured at himself, clad only in stockings and a pair of knickers—both his own, as even he had been reluctant to wear his mother's. "This is for me."

"Good on you," Harry choked. "Well done, Draco. Brilliant, yeah."

"It could be for you, too," Draco said slowly, reaching out his hand to pull Harry up. Harry grabbed it swiftly, but stepped back once he'd risen.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

Draco nodded, feeling distantly silly for standing on a muggle pier at night in a pair of knickers and stockings, but unable to care. He turned to stare at the empty, black bit of water where his mother's white wedding dress had been. He did not feel empty, or dead, or guilty. 

How many realizations had he ever come to standing on a dock?

"I'm sure," he said, and then turned back to Harry, finding him staring at him with a small, quiet smile playing about his lips.

"Come on," Harry said, stepping forward. He pulled his cloak off and wrapped it around Draco's shoulders. "Let's go home."

-

Draco had barely shut the door to Harry's flat before he was slammed back up against it. He inhaled sharply and stared wide-eyed at Harry.

"Do you know how hot you look dressed like that?" he asked quietly. It was so strange to see Harry like that—nearly as strange as it had been to see him storming out the other night. Harry was so very rarely aggressive anymore—always caught up in his dreaming and quietness.

"What?" Draco asked, startled. Harry's hands were bracing himself against the door, trapping Draco between them.

"In women's clothing, Draco," Harry explained, nipping at his earlobe. "You look so fucking amazing in it. Always have."

"I thought you didn't like that I wore my mother's clothing," Draco said. He was getting confused now, and turned on, and the two didn't work well together.

Harry laughed softly in his ear. "I didn't like why you wore it, but you wear it well just the same."

"You think it's hot?" Draco asked slowly.

Harry's hands were all over him now. Even as he asked the question, one of them began trailing down his chest, parting the cloak and skimming over his skin. He trembled and shuddered at the feel of Harry's hands on him, hoping on everything that Harry would keep touching him.

Harry's hand stopped at the waistband of the knickers Draco was wearing and played at the edges. "God, yes," he said.

Draco whimpered in anticipation and bucked forward, trying to get Harry's fingers to slip and touch him where he really wanted to be touched. It didn't work and he whined in desperation. This was so much better than watching Harry wank and they hadn't even really touched yet.

"I've wanted you for so long," Harry continued, and this time, Draco didn't have to ask why, if they'd both wanted each other so much, Harry had never done this. But they were past all that now. 

"I know," he said instead, even as he bucked into Harry again. Harry whimpered and leant into him. Then, suddenly, lips were smashing into his and Draco opened his mouth automatically, begging for it. Harry kissed like he did everything else: passionately and with all of his attention, but this was so much different from the often quiet person Draco had come to know over the years. This was fierce and desperate.

Draco didn't think he'd ever seen Harry desperate before. 

He shrugged out of the cloak impatiently and tugged on his knickers, but Harry's hand on his wrist stopped him. 

"Don't," Harry said against his lips. "Leave them on."

Draco didn't bother replying. He just twisted his fingers around the hem of Harry's t-shirt and snatched it over his head, leaving the tie in place, though he didn't know why—only that seeing Harry in a tie and no shirt was more arousing than he'd ever thought it would be.

Harry's hand finally—finally—slipped inside his knickers then and Draco trembled even harder. He couldn't take much more of this; if Harry didn't stop kissing him and touching him, he was going to come right there, and he didn't want this to be over yet. Clumsily, he reached for Harry's trousers, fumbling blindly until he managed, somehow, to get them off. 

They fell to the floor and then they were both standing there in hardly anything—Draco's knickers a strange contrast to the black boxers Harry wore. Harry pressed his hips into Draco impatiently. "God, I want you," he whispered huskily.

Draco writhed, the feeling of Harry's hard cock pressed against his own too much to bear, even with the fabric that separated them. He yanked them down, wishing he could take off his own, but willing to leave them on for now if Harry wanted it.

"Then have me," Draco said, tangling his hands in Harry's hair and pulling him back in for another kiss. "Fuck me." And, God, how he wanted it.

Harry whined and licked his throat roughly, running his tongue along the skin and up Draco's jaw before he moved back to his ear. His hand, having just tortured Draco mercilessly with its fondling, slipped up to his face. And then his fingers were pressing against his lips.

"Suck," Harry commanded in a low voice. Draco complied immediately, sucking Harry's fingers into his mouth and swirling his tongue around them. Harry ground their hips together again, still tracing paths with his tongue along Draco's skin.

Hastily, he pulled his fingers from Draco's mouth. "God, that's enough," he whispered. "I'll come if you keep doing that."

Then his fingers were skirting the edge of Draco's knickers again. They plunged inside, and Harry's other hand moved to tangle in Draco's hair. Harry ran his fingers, still wet from Draco's mouth, over the head of his cock, gathering pre-come, before sliding back to tease at his entrance.

"Please," Draco whimpered. He couldn't help it; he was writhing and mewling like a common whore, but Harry had always made him want to do that. "Please."

The first finger plunged inside and Draco arched into Harry, so fucking turned on that he couldn't see straight, even if his eyes were open. Two fingers later, he was desperate for more. He bucked forward again, and begged, "Fuck me, Harry, please."

Harry growled and snapped his fingers. They were rapidly covered in thick, dripping fluid, and he wasted no time shoving them back inside Draco and then covering his own cock. 

And then Draco was suddenly lifted off the floor with strength that he hadn't known Harry possessed. He wrapped his legs around him instinctively, one hand still tangled in Harry's thick black hair while the other was gripping his shoulder tightly. Harry pushed the knickers aside, panting, and Draco arched into him, begging for more. Harry shifted, pressing himself up against Draco's entrance.

For a split second, their eyes locked, and then Harry crashed his lips against Draco's at the same time as his cock, thick and heavy with arousal, pressed in. Slowly at first, allowing Draco to adjust, and then, when Draco was begging and writhing and mewling against Harry's mouth, more forcefully.

Draco didn't think he'd ever felt anything so agonizingly amazing in his life. Harry had found the right spot within the first minute of thrusting, but the sharp, burning pain of fucking for the first time in several years hung under it all, making it all the more better for the contrast. 

Draco's back was against the door and Harry's hands were under his arse, holding him up, and his lips were back against his ear. "So fucking hot," Harry moaned. "God, those knickers…"

Harry was fucking him almost furiously now—every thrust hard and fast and hitting just the right spot. "Close," Draco panted.

Harry growled again, shifted his weight and brought his hand up to wrap around Draco's cock. "Oh God," Draco hissed, even as he pushed down even harder on Harry's cock. Harry's hand slid up and down his shaft in rhythm with his thrusting, thumb brushing intoxicatingly over the head each time.

It was all too much. Draco couldn't hold back any longer—didn't want to hold back any longer. With one final thrust from Harry, he came, shooting hot, white spurts of come all over both of their chests. And then Harry cried out and slammed back into him one more time, shuddering and trembling and coming hard.

Minutes later, breathing back under control, Harry slid shakily down to the floor with Draco's legs still wrapped around them. The tie, the only thing Draco had not removed, hung limply from his neck, covered in sweat and twisted all wrong.

"Brilliant," Harry breathed into Draco's neck.

Draco scoffed. "You're such a Philistine."

Harry lifted his head from Draco's shoulder sleepily. "How do you mean?"

"Amazing sex like that and you say 'brilliant'?"

Harry looked endearingly confused. "I'd like to see you come up with something better right now."

Sleepy and sated, Draco couldn't. Much to his annoyance. He wiggled instead, remembering that Harry was still inside him. And the knickers, pushed aside for the whole thing, were getting uncomfortable.

Harry sighed and they slipped apart, standing on wobbly legs. Harry ran a hand through his hair, more mussed and ridiculous than usual. Draco watched him fondly, astounded as to how anyone could actually have hair that bad.

"I've got to return the Magicabrio," Harry said suddenly. "I told them I'd have it back by this afternoon."

Draco waved him off as he removed the sticky knickers and looked for something more comfortable to wear. He saw a pair of Harry's trousers lying on the floor in the other room and went to get them. "I took care of it," he said as he was pulling them on.

"What do you mean?" Harry was still naked save for the tie, leaning against the door frame and looking at Draco affectionately.

"I bought it for you," Draco said. "This morning."

Harry's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Draco said slowly. 

"Why?"

Draco shrugged. "I thought you might like it."

Harry laughed. Then, "You shouldn't have spent your money on me," he said, a guilty look crossing over his face.

"Don't start," Draco warned. "I'm not as strapped as everyone thinks I am." Harry was still frowning, so Draco added, "Do you want to go get some naan and noodles? We haven't had that in a while."

Harry beamed at him. 

-

A week later, after Draco had moved from his flat in Essex to Harry's flat in Essex, they were in a muggle woman's kitchen stealing her aerosol cooking spray when Granger rang Harry on his magical mobile.

"Yeah?" he said. Harry went quiet. And then Harry was grinning and fidgeting. Draco banished the aerosol tin, pocketed some Tupperware and replaced them with crystal, as he was feeling altruistic. "Brilliant," Harry said, and Draco looked up.

"What?"

Harry looked over at him, still beaming. "Forget this lot. Let's go."

"Where?"

Harry shook his head, told Granger goodbye and grabbed his wrist. "You'll see."

Harry apparated them, and when they materialised again, they were standing near the pier in Brighton—where Draco had found Harry feeding the unicorn foal treacle the week before.

"There," Harry whispered, pointing behind Draco. Draco turned.

The unicorn foal was jumping around spastically and whinnying with its tiny little voice—nudging another small unicorn and begging it to play with him. The other unicorn foal pranced and whinnied back, and its mother—standing only a few feet away—swished her tail approvingly.

"He found a herd," Draco said, bewildered. Even as he said it, dozens of other unicorns in all stages of life sauntered out from the woods around them.

Harry nodded mutely beside him. His hand slipped into Draco's, and he said softly, "Of course he did. Did you ever doubt him?"

Draco glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "He didn't have a mother."

"Everyone has a mother," Harry replied quietly. Then he pulled Draco close to him as they watched the other unicorns gathering around. 

Draco turned his head and kissed Harry slowly. Their hands wove together and their bracelets tangled—Draco's mother's bracelet, flickering in the sunlight, and Harry's silly little woven one.

When he pulled back, Draco pressed his forehead against Harry's, staring into his eyes. "What about us men who had mothers, then?"

Harry smiled at him. "We turn out okay."

Draco kissed him again because he knew Harry was right. Their mothers might not be around anymore, but they still had mothers and they were okay. Several unicorns whinnied as Harry's hands tangled in his hair. 

Right then, Draco knew why Harry wanted to save the world. And he thought that maybe, maybe, Harry had known all along what he was saving.

-

End.

-

**Author's Note:**

> The quote "[Goodness me, the clock has struck—]alackaday, and fuck my luck" is from Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five.
> 
> FOLLOW ME ON TUMBLR for snippets, what I'm working on next, and to ask me anything :) [lol-yall on Tumblr](http://lol-yall.tumblr.com/)


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